Prepare, You Lovers, To Know Love A

The Man Of Science Is Nothing If Not A Poet Gone Wrong.

What A Dusty Answer Gets The Soul When Hot For Certainties In This Our Life!

It's Past Parsons To Console Us: No, Nor No Doctor Fetch For Me: I Can Die Without My Bolus; Two Of A Trade, Lass, Never Agree! Parson And Doctor!--don't They Love Rarely Fighting The Devil In Other Men's Fields! Stand Up Yourself And Match Him Fairly: Then See How The Rascal Yields!

The Future Not Being Born, My Friend, We Will Abstain From Baptizing It.

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.